


When Snow Hurts.

by Jem (letalloursingingfollowhim)



Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, Caleb gets shot, Cold Weather, Culper Ring, Other, battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letalloursingingfollowhim/pseuds/Jem
Summary: Caleb Brewster gets shot... but he's surprisingly fine with it.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	When Snow Hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Awful description, I know. This was a small fic I wrote for my friend on Amino.

Snow, crisp and soft, blanketed every open inch of land for the surrounding landscape. Off-cream coloured tents littered the usual muddy brown-green ground that was now the beautiful shade of white- a shade of white that would have been beautiful if snow didn’t mean more than just freezing days and nights. Able to be quelled by warm tea and a blazing fire. No, the freezing temperatures were ceaseless, ceaseless and deathly. Cold wind blew and puffed outside of every tent, dampening out the fires most men had tried to start. Lapping up the glorious orange and red flames that gave off the wonderful heat that each man, be it lieutenant, general, or major, relished in. Blankets were becoming scarce and threadbare, barley providing any form of the heat that was all dearly awaited and required. A single worn out blanket, one or two small, unused candles... that was all most men had to help stop from the dangerous cold, the cold that caused illness and perfect supplies to be frozen and unusable, that caused water sources to freeze and men to die of dehydration. The malicious cold and snow and ice drew colour from every source, making the camp seem lifeless, despite the chilling beauty of the sporadically scattered freezing, white powder.

Caleb shivered. He felt the full force of the terrifying cold, shivering still, in his woollen blue coat indicating his patriot loyalty, underneath his singular worn out grey blanket, with two wax candles littering his bed-side table. Also on the bed-side table sat a bottle of whisky; warm, brown, and fulfilling. Wind howled and whispered outside of his drab residing place. It was a small tent, off-white with obvious mud stains outside; inside housed a mahogany desk and an uncomfortable, wooden cot. The man, lying uncomfortably frigid, atop his cot had resigned himself there after his ink had finally frozen up and his grey quill had become too icy to hold. However, from the sound of snow falling from trees, the remembrance that his own horse had died, and the atrocity that was the weather- Caleb couldn’t sleep. 

Sitting up in a shaky movement, he coughed, harsh but short, hurting his lungs slightly as the frigid air he breathed in burned. Pulling his coat tighter around himself, taking another deep breath of the horribly dry air, he tried to make himself feel any semblance of heat. The coat’s material was wool. It locked in heat in the summer but served as a useless aid for keeping out the cold in the winter. Unlike others, Caleb didn’t have other necessities: gloves, cloak, hats. It was easier to stick with the basics of their uniform, a waistcoat for day to day, and the other necessities of camp such as breeches and wool socks. It wasn’t much, but the man rarely went out of his way to purchase lavish items, even if he was now regretting it and the items in question weren’t exactly lavish. 

Standing up, he wasn’t sure what to do. His face was set, a little stern looking on the contrary to his usual expression of unbothered. Caleb’s dark, mud brown eyes held an air of emptiness and dullness, the look that had penetrated his eyes for the past few months, much different from before, when they held joy and light and were striking. Caleb wasn’t often one to show how he felt, masking whatever emotions he felt with a joke or alcohol, but he wasn’t cold about not showing them. Noticeable stabs of pain shot threw his legs as he continued to pace, his cobalt breeches providing no source of comfort from the cold. After a few more minutes of pondering on his nothing-thoughts and listening to the drops of snow, whistles of wind, and distant shout of people, he took a seat, a seat atop his thin cotton cover of his cot, reaching out to take the bottle of whisky from the side of his table.

The liquid enveloped his senses, making him feel warm, even for just a slight moment. It was a cease from the relentless cold. However, the moment of calmness and brief serenity lasted a mere second as the moment he took the third swig, there was a voice. The words spoken by the weak, muffled voice from outside were nothing short of a horror. 

“British attacking.” the small voice came from outside of the tent, the voice knocking on the wide wooden beam that held up the cloth of the tent. 

How? Caleb was almost indefinitely sure that it had been decided that the campsite of Valley Forge was too frigid at the time to be fought at. Half the horses were dead! His own horse, a white and brown stallion, had died too, died from something or other. Caleb had found her body not too long after speaking with Benjamin Tallmadge and George Washington not three days prior. He’d have to go on foot. The snow that blanketed the ground and the snow that had just finished coming down at full force would make it nearly impossible to move at any decent pace. However, he knew his exact position, and so, he took haste, not replying to the sick voice that called out to him, instead slamming the bottle back down by the desk and picking up his musket and powder.

Caleb stepped out, biting back a shiver, and furrowing his brow. The immediate thought was one of Ben, his closest friend whom he had known for the short side of forever. If he was all right, then so was Caleb. But, alas, the sweep of men, both in blue and red was too much to spot one indistinguishable man. The flurry of men all headed to the same direction was a lot to keep track of, especially when the snow beneath your feet is determined to make you trip and fall. However, he still pursued onward, needing to make haste to the front lines. Death didn’t scare him, getting shot or stabbed, that was never the forefront of his mind. It was what came afterward, the whole finality of death, that’s what tugged at the edge of his thoughts on dark nights whenever it was dead silent, and sleep hadn’t decided to pull him into its well-meaning grasps. But even if, today, he were to die, it would have been worth it for the future of the American colonies.

He stopped dead in his tracks, falling into line beside the others, muskets drawn. The cold was making every extremity numb. The strange numb but tingling feeling that only the cold seemed able to do. The way it made it hard to move, hard to drag your feet and legs through the snow that suddenly weighted a tonne. Even when prompted by the command.

“Move and fire! .... Fallback!” The authoritative voice called, Caleb found it almost unidentifiable in the sounds of the muskets and cannons, screams and wailing from both sides. The battle was clouded in thick smoke, smoke so opaque it was making it difficult to see the opposing alliance, even if red did often stick out amongst the lapping white and blue. 

The figure called again, and this time, Caleb moved. Dragging his frost bitten limbs through the heavy sheets of snow that suddenly felt like lead, musket drawn fully and unhitched. It was dark in his hand as he fired direct at the steam of red coats that polluted the front lines. About to draw back, grateful to all there was that this time, just this time, his blood wasn’t pooled onto the blankets of snow that enveloped the foreseeable land. Grateful for the fact he wasn’t one of the blue coats’ deaths just yet, as he saw men drop from all around him, in waves of red and blue. Hopeful that Ben wasn’t one of those casualties.

All in a moment, the white snow around Caleb was turned red, red from blood that pooled out all from around him. The delayed response from the single bullet that hit him in the upper right arm. He fell back, dropping his musket with a crashing thud. Caleb had been shot before, he was used to the pain, burning and stinging, writhing and strong. The dead weight that his arm became the moment the bullet lodged itself perfectly in place. The feeling that accumulated in his chest, the gasping sound he made as he realised the extent of the bullet damage. All of these had happened before. The only thing new was the way the snow crusted ground drew up to greet him, and the way the snow held him in place, burning further into his arm and limbs. 

Snow could be stunning. Stunning and joyous, a happiness provoker at the right times. The times whenever you were safe at home with family, a heavy blanket, a hot cup of tea and a roaring flame. A picturesque family portrait adorned atop the brick fireplace. Snow could be wonderful. Snow wasn’t wonderful when you could still hear the screams of people, both American and otherwise. Snow wasn’t wonderful when you could feel the left over residue of the muskets that hung in the air, or when you could smell the nauseating scent that was gun powder. Snow could be wonderful. But not when you cannot open your eyes or move your body from the pain in your arm, lying crumpled, barely out of line of fire. That’s when snow was torturous.

**Author's Note:**

> -Li.
> 
> I have basically nothing left to say.


End file.
